Breaking Point
by PaperFortress
Summary: Now I've reached the precipice, this my breaking point I'll call; Yes, I have reached my breaking point, and now I'll break them all. Note: Chapter two fixed and re-uploaded.
1. Chapter 1

**Hullo there! I actually have no idea what to say right now, so I'll simply tell you that this fic is a request from the lovely hiddenheart40120. So, I'm going to shut up and let you read it now. **

* * *

_My cup runneth over and leaves stains upon the floor_

_And the blood upon my hands is more than that upon my door_

_Now I've reached the precipice, this my breaking point I'll call_

_Yes, I have reached my breaking point, and now I'll break them all_

* * *

Molly Hooper was tired. She was tired of being the little morgue mouse that people trampled over; she was tired of being used; she was tired of the sleepless nights that she spent wondering if she could have done anything different, berating herself for being too stupid to realize her dear Jim from IT was actually James Moriarty, consulting criminal and psychopath; she was tired of Sherlock's cold, cruel comments that tore into her already-battered heart; she was tired of pining over a man that would never return her feelings; she was so bloody _tired._

It showed physically ("You've lost six pounds since I last saw you." "I know, Sherlock."), it showed emotionally (really, no sane person should cry just because their cat wouldn't come out from under the bed), it even showed mentally (_Talking to yourself isn't normal or healthy, Molls._). It had slowly infiltrated every facet of her miserable existence until even _she_ realized just how far she had come. The pitying looks from her co-workers hadn't helped, nor had the "uplifting" compliments from Dr. Watson ("That skirt compliments the colour of your eyes," or, "Your shoes very shiny today.").

In short, this newfound weariness had put the right amount of pressure on her, and Sherlock Holmes was the straw to break the mousy camel's back.

"I need to look at a male, aged thirty-five to forty." A deep voice called. Molly sighed, her eyelids sliding shut.

"Have you a pass?"

"No."

"Then you can't see the corpse."

Silence. Then, "Molly, your hair looks quite lovely pulled back like that. It compliments your features."

"Thank you, Sherlock. You still need a pass." A longer silence.

"You really _do_ need to wear lipstick, Molly. Your lips are entirely inadequate. Also, you may consider buying a push-up bra, if you wish to attract anyone other than psychopathic, murderous criminals." His voice was cold and low, his eyes practically glaring a hole through her before he turned on his heel and marched out, ridiculous coat flapping behind him. John looked shell-shocked at his friend's behaviour. He muttered a quick apology before hurrying away.

Molly stood there, elbow-deep in a seventy-two-year-old woman, silent tears beginning to slide down her cheeks as his words replayed in her head. _Inadequate,_ his voice taunted. _Weakling. Mousy Molly Hooper, unable to do anything right. _She shook her head, the tears coming hot and thick now. _Do try not to date any other psychopaths that want to kill me, yes? Or perhaps stop dating at all. God knows the male population would be better off. _

"Stop it!" She yelled. Her wavering voice echoed back to her, desperate and angry. Why did he always say such horrible things when he didn't get his way? He was such a _child_.

_You know_ I'm_ right,_ the voice hissed. _I always am. _

"No. No, you're not," Molly whispered, shaking her head. "You're not."

_I am. You are nothing, Molly Elizabeth Hooper. Nothing. Your own _family_ disapproves of you. _"

"Shut up!"

_Your dear father, wanting you to become something useful, like a surgeon, or even a lawyer. Dear little Mummy, wanting her daughter to be married already, with two children and a dog. Brother William, who thought you'd make an excellent battlefield nurse._

"Shut UP!" Molly screamed, peeling off her bloody gloves and throwing them across the room. She backed up against the wall, sliding down it and sobbing into her hands, rocking herself back and forth. She stayed like this for several minutes, until she heard a quiet voice.

"Dr. Hooper?" It was one of the interns, Bill or Bob something-or-another. His voice was soft, consoling as he knelt beside her. "Are you alright?"

She turned her tearstained face towards him, no doubt looking a complete mess. "I'm fine," she said thickly, voice cracking.

He arched a brow at her obvious lie, but didn't mention it. "Why don't you go home and let me finish up, yeah? You've had a lot put on you lately, and it's probably a good idea if you take some time off."

Molly laughed bitterly. "A lot put on me lately? You've no idea, mate. No. Bloody. Idea." Another almost-hysterical laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I'll do that. Take some time off, that is. Yeah."

The intern nodded, eyeing her warily before standing and proceeding to wash up. "Have a nice break, Dr. Hooper."

"Thanks," she muttered, standing and all but running from the building. Oh yes, she was going to have a break, all right, but she was almost positive there wasn't going to be anything "nice" about it.

* * *

Despite what Sherlock and everyone else thought, Molly Hooper was not stupid. In fact, she was quite intelligent, something that helped her rise to head pathologist at St. Bartholomew's at her relatively young age. She merely didn't flaunt her intelligence, mainly because of her deplorable lack of self-confidence. She would rather appear idiotic than arrogant or wrong, shy than loud and obnoxious. She still used that intelligence in her everyday life, however, and had she not been so blasted _tired_, and so emotionally strained, she would have noticed the warning signs that something was definitely one thing, Toby didn't run to greet her as he normally did when she entered the flat. Normally, this wouldn't bother her, as she usually left the windows open so that he could roam about while she was at work. The windows weren't open, though, because the forecast had called for rain. She had left plenty of food and water in his respective bowls, and he seemed to be in a very good mood when she left. Why, then, wouldn't he come to see her? He didn't even come pattering down the hall when she called for him, making small clicking noises with her tongue.

Secondly, there was an odd scent in her flat, something definitively masculine. She identified sandalwood as one of the smells, along with something muskier, heady even. All of her perfumes were lighter, airier scents, flowery and fruity.

Lastly, the television had been turned on, and was currently playing an old episode of Glee. She knew she had turned the telly off before she left that morning, and she hadn't watched Glee since she had ended it with Jim.

Being in the state of mind she was, however, Molly paid little attention to these things, dismissing them as she threw her purse on the overstuffed couch and threw her heels in the hall cupboard. The tears that had left her in the cab were now returning, falling quickly as she hurried down the hall to her bedroom, closing the door far harder than was necessary and beginning to strip, fingers fumbling in the buttons of her lavender blouse.

"Molly, Molly, Molly," a soft Irish voice sing-songed, "we never even made it through the third date, and yet you're stripping for me? Naughty girl."

Molly Hooper froze blouse half-way undone, then turned and looked into the black eyes of Jim Moriarty.

* * *

"J-Jim?" She stuttered, brown eyes going wide as she took in his thin form sitting on her bed, Toby purring contentedly in his lap.

Moriarty beamed. "You _do_ remember!" He giggled. "I thought you were just going to ignore me!" "I-" Molly took a shuddering breath, calming herself.

"What're you doing here?"

"I came to see you, of course! You look like you've had a bad day, though. Care to tell me about it?" He patted the space next to him, grinning invitingly.

"W-why would you come to see _me?_" _Have you come here to hurt me?_

"Because I _missed you,_ of course! We always _did _have such fun, you know." His smile dropped. "You don't trust me," he said flatly.

"You tried to blow up Sherlock and John."

"It's always about _Sherlock_ with you, isn't it, Molly? _Sherlock_ this, and _Sherlock_ that." His gaze softened. "You're bright; can't you understand? He _hurts _you, Molly. He hurt you today, didn't he?" He nodded as Molly's silence gave the confirmation he needed. "I've _never_ hurt you, Molly. Never. _You _broke up with _me,_ remember?" Another laugh.

"You've killed people," she whispered, "innocent people who never did anything to you."

"Everyone is dying, Molly. I was just speeding along the process for some of them." A small smile flirted with the corners of his lips. "No one is innocent, my dear. Every single one of us has done something bad, something we regret. Even you. Even your dear Sherlock. Even the _cat_," he murmured, giving the creature in question a small scratch behind the ears.

Molly considered this. Truth be told, he _had _been very sweet to her when they were dating, always very courteous and kind, able to make her laugh. Never once had he raised his voice - or his hand - at her, nor had he threatened her in any way. In fact, if she hadn't been told, she would've never suspected him capable of being a psychopathic criminal mastermind that was intent on playing deadly games with her crush/obsession and his flatmate. He was also right about Sherlock, as much as she hated admitting it. He _was_ very cruel to her, always using her to get what he needed by whatever means necessary, be that fake compliments or very real, very cold insults. He never showed remorse, either, except that one time at the Christmas party. Even then, she had thought he wouldn't have apologised had it not been the holidays and a fair few people were in the flat with them. She also hated to admit he was right about his…actions. People died every day, and they would continue to die until the end of time, whether they had a terminal illness, or a serious injury, or a bad sickness, or they had just lived too long. He was also right about the bad things. God knows she had her fair share of regrettable actions, and she also knew she wasn't the only one. Molly nodded to herself. Jim was making sense, quite a lot of it, actually. He hadn't tried to hurt her or her cat, he hadn't lied to her or tricked her, and he hadn't threatened her. Perhaps Jim wasn't that bad after all, even if he _did _do a few shady dealings on the side.

If Molly Hooper had been in her right might (not so blasted _tired,_ and not so emotionally strained), she would have overthrown this tenuous logic, and thrown Jim out of the flat, phoning the police immediately after. But Molly Hooper _wasn't_ in her right mind (she was _so blasted tired_, and _so emotionally strained_). So she did the only thing she thought would be sat beside him on the bed.

Jim smiled at her, throwing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest. "Now, tell dear Jimmy what happened today that made you cry."

Molly nodded. "I've just been so _tired_ lately, and it's all so _much_, you know?" She waited until he nodded to continue. "Today, Sherlock came into the morgue and asked if he could see a corpse. I told him no, because he didn't have the right clearance. So, he complimented me, thinking I'd let him go on. I thanked him, but told him he still needed the proper clearance. Then, he…He said the most _awful_, _horrible_ things." Tears began to fall again as she recounted what he had told her. "Then he just stormed out, like _I_ had insulted _him_! I just…snapped." She began to sob in earnest again, and he stroked her hair, rubbing small circles in her back.

"See what I mean, Molly? He's absolutely _horrid_ to you, and you did nothing to deserve it."

Molly sniffled in response.

"I won't hurt you like that, Molly," he whispered. "I'll treat you like you ought to be treated. You don't _need _him. All he'll ever do is hurt you. I promise I'll never do that, Molly. I swear." He continued this train of thought in a low voice, continuing to make soothing motions until she quieted, occasionally hiccoughing. "Better?"

She nodded.

"Are you still tired, Molly?"

"A little," she admitted, voice thick from nodded.

"I thought so. Sleep, love. It'll be better when you wake up. _Sleep."And she did._

* * *

**_You know that feeling you get when you write something at 2 a.m., and you read it over and over again, and think it's actually really good, but you wake up in the morning and read it again, and it turns out to be the biggest pile of crap you've ever seen? Yeah, that's what happened with this story. If you've made it this far without running and screaming, then I applaud you, and beg of you to drop me a review. I love constructive criticism, and God knows I need it. So...thanks! I promise nothing in regards to frequency of updates.  
Oh, and the little poem at the beginning is mine, so if you use it, please credit me. _**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hullo, everyone! First, I want to thank all of the lovely, lovely people who reviewed, favourited, and alerted this story. Thank you so, so much; you have **_**no idea**_** how much it means to me. So again, thank you. Secondly, I want to point out that I am not British, and this is not "Brit-picked", so I'll probably have some things a bit off. Please, if you catch something like this, let me know about it in a review! Lastly, I want to clarify that in his, Reichenbach never happened. So, now that all the mushy and informative stuff is over, I present to you chapter two. Also, I apologise in advance for any crappiness in this story; I'm sure there is, and will be, plenty.**

* * *

Molly Hooper woke up alone. She felt a sharp pang of disappointment, along with a small sense of panic. She was _certain_ Jim had been there when she had fallen asleep; wasn't she? Wasn't he the one that had comforted her, held her as she cried, whispered soothing words? Hadn't he held her as she dozed off, one hand still tracing small circles on her back? Or perhaps she had been so bloody tired, and so emotionally strained that her mind had conjured up her psychopathic, criminal mastermind ex-boyfriend in order to succour her until she finally slept? Was it all just an extremely vivid, detailed hallucination? Fear gripped her heart as she toyed with the idea that she may truly be going insane, that the events of the past few weeks had actually sent her into a psychotic break. That couldn't be right, though, because now that some of the grogginess has left her mind, she catches a whiff of sandalwood and something muskier, headier. _Jim_. She also smells something different, something…_burnt. _Her nose wrinkles as she grimaces. Though it was rather nice to lie about all day, she _did_ have work to do, and it wouldn't hurt to go see Jim, just to be certain he was real, and hadn't done any serious damage to her flat.

She stripped off her clothes, replacing them with a blue T-shirt and hip-hugging trousers, threw on a dab of perfume, combed her hair out with her fingers, and then padded down the hallway towards the living room. Of all the things she expected to find, Jim curled up on the couch with Toby and a large bowl of popcorn, watching re-runs of _Eastenders_, was not one of them. He looked up when she entered the room, and she gave him a meek wave.

He grinned. "Molly! Finally awake, are we? You seemed _so_ tired and I hated to wake you. I texted your work and told them you'd be taking a few days off. That's alright, of course?" The words were light and almost playful, but they held a darker undertone, and his eyes dared her to contradict him. Oddly, this sent a small thrill through her.

"Of course," she replied with a smile, moving to sit by him on the couch. "I take it you burned the first bowl of popcorn, then?"

Jim looked delighted. "Very good! Yes, I _did_ burn the first bowl. I had forgotten how hard it is to do domestic things."

Molly beamed at the compliment, reaching over to steal a few pieces. "Domesticity is not too bad. A bit boring sometimes, but you get used to it."

He shuddered. "Why would anyone _want_ to?"

She considered this for a moment. "Routine," she said finally. "People are always rushing round, going about their busy, everyday lives where the only constant is change. I suppose it's nice to have something to come back to that rarely changes. It calms the mind, helps you to relax. Kind of like a safe haven." She frowned as she noticed Jim looking at her oddly. "What?"

A small, peculiar smile twisted his lips. "I just can't comprehend why Sherlock thinks you're so…"

"Stupid? Inadequate? Daft?" She supplied bitterly.

He nodded. "That. Obviously, he hasn't held a decent conversation with you, or he'd realise just how wrong he is."

Molly felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks. "He's probably right," she muttered.

Jim's eyes flashed, and his voice took on a chilling quality. "Oh yes, because he's _always_ right, because he's _Sherlock Holmes._"

She shook her head quickly. "No, no, that's not it. It's just…compared to you and him, I'm really nothing special. I'm certainly no genius, I'm not very pretty, my lips are too small, _I'm _too small, I-"

He held up a hand to stop her, his voice softening. "I think you're very pretty, and very intelligent." A mischievous look passed over his features. "As for your lips…" He ducked down to press a quick kiss to them. "I think they're perfect, as are you."

A shy look passed over her features. "You really think so?" she asked quietly.

"Molly Elizabeth Hooper," he murmured, fingers grasping her chin and turning her face to look at him, "I think you are absolutely perfect, and you needn't ever doubt that."

"Thank you," she whispered with a grin as he once again pulled her to his chest.

She felt another small kiss pressed to her head as she turned her attention to the programme. She had already seen this particular episode, and she took small joy in softly speaking the lines along with the characters. After a while, she felt rather than heard Jim begin to do the same. The lulling motion of his chest as it rose and fell with his breathing, coupled with the faint murmur of his soft, lilting voice put her at peace and made her somewhat drowsy. Her eyelids slid closed after a few moments, and she felt herself drifting off again

* * *

"Molly," a voice sing-songed. "Molly, dear, wake up."

She groaned as her shoulder was shaken insistently, and opened her eyes, blinking blearily up at the form above her. A form that was grinning far too widely. A form with dark hair and equally dark eyes.

"Whuddizzit?" she mumbled.

"You have to wake up, darling. We have planning to do!"

This certainly got her attention, and she sat up, rubbing the girt out of her eyes. "Planning?"

"Yes, Molly. Planning!"

"For what?"

"Our revenge, of course!"

This threw her for a moment. "Revenge? On whom and for what?"

Jim sighed, rolling his eyes. "On Sherlock, and John, and that silly Detective Inspector, and all the other people who have hurt you. They need to be taught a lesson." Again, his features seemed to morph into something more sinister. "You're mine now, Molly, and they need to learn that _nobody_ hurts what's mine."

A small shiver danced down her spine at the dark, possessive tone. Molly Hooper quite liked the idea of belonging to Jim Moriarty. Liked it far more than she - or anyone else- should, really. Still, doubt niggled at the back of her mind.

"Jim," she said slowly, "I don't think it'd be right to do that. I'm not very comfortable with the idea of hurting them. They're my _friends._"

_"Friends?"_ he repeated softly. "They're your _friends?_"

"Y-yes," she whispered. "They're my friends."

"Tell me, Molly, where were your _friends_ when you were hurt? Where were they when you were left an emotional mess? Where were they when you were being ignored and scorned for your 'involvement'? Where were these _friends_ when you were breaking down? Oh, yes, I forgot! They were _there_, taking _part _in it, _causing_ you to fall apart! Precious Sherlock with his cruel, biting words. Sweet John with his compliments and lies. Detective Inspector Lestrade, who couldn't even make _eye contact_, much less offer any support. Tell me, Molly, why would your _friends_ do that? _Answer me!" _His words had grown steadily louder until he ended with a yell.

Molly cowered, looking up at him in fear as he glared at her, breathing heavily, rage shining in his eyes, his face.

"I-I don't know!" she whimpered, biting back a sob.

He instantly looked contrite, almost horrified. "Oh, Molly," he murmured, reaching out to gently stroke her face. "I'm sorry, love. Jimmy has a bad temper." He gathered her trembling frame in his arms, making small shushing noises. "They aren't your _friends_, Molly. They don't care about you. I've kept a watch on your phone. Not one of your so-called _friends_ has called to check up on you. They don't care, Molly. They _use _you, can't you see? Sherlock uses you for body parts and lab access, John uses you for Sherlock access, and the others use you for their own purposes. They don't care about you, Molly. But _I _do. _I _care about you, and I won't let them hurt you. They need to learn, Molly. They need to see that hurting you is wrong, as is using you. They have to learn. Will you help me teach them?"

Molly pulled back, looking up at him with a new determination in her eyes. "Yes."

Jim smiled and pulled her in for a quick kiss. "That's my girl.

"She beamed, and they began to plan.

* * *

**Well, that was worse than expected! I have a bad feeling that, due to my nocturnal writing habits, this is going to be another "oh-it-looks-lovely-now-at-two-in-the-morning-but-when-I-read-it-later-this-will-be-the-biggest-pile-of-bullcrap-ever-written" sort of thing. Again, if you've made it to the bottom, kudos to you! Thank you so much for reading, and if you have the time, please drop me a review! **


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